Hide and Seek (Criminal Profiler #1)(13)

The last few miles took her down smaller roads until she spotted the driveway marked by stacked stones. Gravel crunched under her tires as she passed a freshly cleared field. Over the rise of a hill, she saw the old barn, encircled by yellow crime scene tape.

When she had been researching the area, slogans such as “Best Quality of Life” and “Raise Your Family in Deep Run” had popped up on her computer screen. As she had read about the area, she had kept glancing toward the open case file filled with images of Tobi Turner’s scattered bones. Recent pictures had captured the barn surrounded by dozens of state and local law enforcement vehicles crammed side by side in the grassy field.

Now as Macy parked, she noted that all the vehicles were gone expect for a lone black SUV. She grabbed her Glock from the glove compartment, holstered it, and stepped out of her car. Her worn hiking boots sloshed in the damp, muddy soil. She tugged on an FBI windbreaker and draped her credentials around her neck. As a stiff breeze blew a lingering chill and autumn scents, she checked her pockets for latex gloves, sunglasses, a small pocketknife, and a pendant light.

Edginess and excitement fused as she strode toward the stretch of yellow tape and searched for Nevada. She ducked under the tape and stepped inside the barn.

Sunlight leaked through the thick rafters, shining down onto the beams, haylofts, and wide-planked floors worn smooth from generations’ worth of wear.

During her convalescence, renovation shows had filled so many lost hours. Now she didn’t feel they had been so wasted as she studied the barn. A couple of hundred years old, the structure had been constructed of hand-hewed logs and likely had been used for horses or mules. Mumbling to herself, she said, “Now if I could just use what I learned from watching endless 1980s rock band television documentaries, I’ll be all set.”

A generator started up and spotlights clicked on inside the barn, illuminating the dark corners. Nevada was close.

The light drew her attention to the right corner, which was roped off with red crime scene tape. The forensic tech had designated this area as very sensitive because most of the bones and the backpack had fallen here. Inside the tape, the techs had shifted the dirt as they had searched for the last bits of Tobi Turner.

Macy elbowed aside anger and shifted her attention to the lost girl and her killer. Photos of Tobi’s backpack had shown that it had contained simple jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes, but the fabric remnants and glittering blue cowboy boots found with the body suggested she had changed after she had left her parents’ house. Macy suspected Tobi had lied about the study session and had diverted to a party. The killer could have recognized her desire for excitement and used it against her.

A thousand miles away, three Texas graves marked by red rocks told a similar story. Young girls in search of something more had crossed paths with a pure evil who had held them captive and forced each to bear a child for him. Her birth mother had borne Macy and her identical twin sister, Faith. A second girl had borne another sister, and the third a brother. Those graves embodied endless misery and would devastate her if she allowed herself to dwell on them.

“You made it.” Nevada’s deep voice snapped her back and conjured sweet memories that had no place here.

Macy faced him and saw his shocked expression when he got his first good look at her. He quickly masked the reaction, and his expression became unreadable. Determined to prove the HNR didn’t matter, she extended her hand. “Good to see you, Nevada.”

In his early forties, Nevada was conspicuously tall. Flint-gray eyes hinted at several lifetimes’ worth of hard living. He wore jeans, a dark sweater, a leather jacket, scuffed boots, and a SHERIFF ball cap. Never seeming comfortable in a jacket and tie, Nevada 2.0 looked at home.

“Macy.” Nevada restrained his powerful grip as he shook her hand.

Irritated he was already treating her like damaged goods, she quipped, “What happened to you, Nevada? Your grip’s a little soft.”

He released her hand. “You look . . .”

“Like I was hit by a fucking truck?”

A frown furrowed the lines around his eyes and mouth. “I called the hospital several times, but you never returned my calls.”

“Thanks for the effort. Truly. But my focus was dialed into my recovery.”

He was caught in a bad spot. They’d slept together a couple of times, liked each other, and split on good terms. Beyond a vague promise to see each other one day, nothing had bound them. What was he supposed to have done after the accident? Drop everything and race to her hospital bed?

“I wanted to help,” he said.

When a silence settled between them, she chose to fill it. “There wasn’t much you could’ve done. It was on me.”

During rehab, she’d needed to be around people who weren’t mourning the old her. God knows she had done enough of that herself. And Nevada seeing her so broken would have been her undoing.

“Did you get my gift?” he asked.

She smiled. He’d sent her a vintage copy of a Twisted Sister album. “‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ became my anthem.”

The quip didn’t chase away the intensity in his gaze. “I thought it would make a nice addition to your LP collection.”

“It has a proud spot.” Right now, she needed to believe whatever was between them was water under the bridge. Her focus remained on getting her life back. “Tell me about the bones. Where are they now?”